Refuge(26)

The library door was open, and the room looked much as it had the first time I’d been here. I would have thought the room empty if the slightest rustling of paper behind one of the high backed chairs hadn’t alerted me to the presence of someone else. Instead of announcing myself, I moved silently to the bookcases to return the copy of Jane Eyre I had borrowed. I almost hated to give it up, but I was excited to see what other treasures were waiting on the shelves.

No way! My eyes lit upon a perfectly preserved copy of Daniel Deronda. I slid the book off the shelf and opened the cover to see that it was indeed a first edition. How many people got the opportunity to appreciate classic literature like this? Oh, Dad, what I wouldn’t give for you to be able to see this.

I debated sitting by the fire, but if it was Desmund in the chair – and I had a suspicion it was – he was keeping to himself and I didn’t want to give him a reason to be upset. He was used to having this room to himself, so it was probably best to ease him into the idea of sharing the space. I carried my book to the table near the window where there was a small reading lamp. The chair wasn’t as nice as the ones by the fire, but the book provided a happy diversion.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

I started at the voice a few feet away. He had moved so quietly that I never noticed him approach. He was wearing similar dated clothing to what he’d worn during our last encounter, but I saw that it was clean and pressed. His hair was neater, and I couldn’t help but think he cleaned up well. My eyes went to his face, and I was not surprised to find a scowl there. Remembering what Tristan had said about Desmund’s bad mood being due to his illness, I ignored his glower and gave him a polite smile. “Hello.”

My friendly greeting seemed to throw him, and he stared at me for a moment before his dark gaze fell on the book in my hands. “You have odd taste in literature for one your age.”

I lifted a shoulder. “I read a lot of different books – whatever appeals to me.” He didn’t respond so I asked, “What do you like to read?”

Desmund lifted his hand, and I saw he was holding Hamlet, which we’d covered in English lit last spring. It was too dark and violent for my taste, and I didn’t think it was good reading material for a man who already seemed slightly unhinged. I kept that observation to myself.

“You don’t like Shakespeare?” His tone was chilly, and I wondered how I had offended him so easily.

“I have trouble understanding the English,” I replied honestly. “I don’t like it when I have to stop and figure out what every word means.”

He turned and walked across the room to a tall cabinet built into the wall. Opening the door, he retrieved a remote control and fiddled with it for a minute before soft strains of classical violin music filled the room. It was not something I’d normally listen to, but it wasn’t unpleasant either.

“You don’t like Vivaldi?”

“I’m not familiar with him.” I assumed Vivaldi was the composer and not a type of music.

He made a scoffing sound. “Not surprising. Young people today have horrid taste in music. What do you call it . . . pop?”

“Just because I don’t know every piece of classical music doesn’t mean I don’t like any of it.” I waved at the bookshelves lining the walls. “I bet you haven’t read every book that’s been published.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, and pray tell me, which of the great composers do you prefer then?”

A week ago, I couldn’t have answered that question. Before I came here, I listened mostly to classic rock, but that was before I discovered the vast selection of classical music in the common rooms. I’d sampled music from different composers and discovered a few I liked. I still couldn’t tell Bach from Brahms, but there was one that stood out for me. “Tchaikovsky.”

“And what is your favorite Tchaikovsky piece?” he asked scornfully as if he didn’t believe me. His attitude annoyed the hell out of me. I obviously didn’t know as much about classical music as he did – hell, he and Mozart could have been buddies for all I knew – but he didn’t have to be such a snob about it.

I reminded myself that he was ill and tempered my response. “I don’t know what it’s called; it’s some kind of waltz. I listened to it a bunch of times in the common room.”

At first I thought he was going to insult me again, but instead he hit a few buttons on his remote and the waltz began to play.

“That’s it!”

The beautiful sweeping melody filled the room for almost a minute before he turned back to me with a bemused expression. “Serenade for Strings in C major. It is one of my favorites as well.”